THE 
RAINBOW  CHASER 


-NRLF 


B    3    33T    flSS 


ENNETH  RAND 


Sattthmu 


r 


BY 
KENNETH  RAND 

Author  of  "The  Dirge  of 
the  Sea-Children,"   etc. 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  6»  COMPANY 


TO 

3C.  A.  <£. 


346461 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

Of  the  following  poems,  "  The  Rainbow  Chaser  " 
first  appeared  in  The  Smart  Set;  "  The  Dream 
Minstrel"  in  Lippincott's;  "The  Half-Poet/' 
"The  Lonely  Road/'  "The  Sun- Worshipper/' 
"Out  on  the  Paths  of  Wonder/'  "A  Pagan's 
Creed  "  and  "  The  Liar "  in  The  Yale  Literary 
Magazine;  "  The  Blind  Gypsy  "  in  The  Bellman. 
Thanks  are  due  the  editors  of  these  publications 
for  permission  to  reprint. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE     RAINBOW    CHASER 1 

A  PAGAN'S  CREED 3 

THE    LIAR 5 

THE  SUN-WORSHIPPER 7 

THE     LONELY    ROAD 9 

THE  BLIND  GYPSY 10 

"OUT  ON  THE  PATHS  OF  WONDER"   .      .      .11 

THE    SEER 14 

THE    DREAM    MINSTREL 15 

REACTION 17 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  RED  FOOL   .      .      .      .  18 

JACK    o'    VISIONS 21 

FAUNUS  AT  THE  CROSS 23 

A    HARBOR    SONG 26 

A   WAYSIDE    PARABLE 28 

THE     SORROW-EATER 29 

VESPER  SONG  ON  THE   OPEN   ROAD    ...  30 

ATHEISM         32 

A    FINANCIAL    TRANSACTION 33 

THE   OLD   LOVERS 34 

A    WESTERN    OCEAN    LYRIC 35 

THE    SATIRIST 36 

IN   A   CONVENT   GARDEN 38 

THE  DEGENERATE  SPEAKS 40 

PSYCHE     KARDIOU 42 

A  VAGABOND'S  PRAYER  TO  LIFE    ....  43 

THE  PENCIL  PEDDLER 45 

THE    OLD    VOYAGERS 46 

ENNUYE    .  48 


PAGE 

THE   EXILE 49 

OUTCAST 50 

A  YOUNG  MAN'S  PRAYER 52 

DUST 53 

THE     CABIN-BOYS 54 

THE  MISANTHROPE 57 

THE     DEPARTURE 59 

PROPEMPTIKON 61 

DOSTA! 63 

To  A  HALF-BRED  MARE  THAT  DIED  ...  64 

THE      PENALTIES 66 

THE   TRUE   MAGIC 67 

THE    CHILDREN'S   FLEETS 68 

THE    SMOKE-FLAG 70 

SONNET 71 

THE  PHILANDERER 72 

RODRIPE/N 73 

To  A  POET  WHO  DIED  YOUNG 75 

LYRICS  FROM  THE  SCHERIAN 

I     THE     OUTLANDER'S    SONG     ....  79 

II     THE    SONG    OP    THE    HARBOR-MAIDENS  80 

III     SERENADE 81 

IV     ECHO    SONG  82 


PRELUDE 
THE  HALF-POET 

BECAUSE  a  Palm  is  laid  across  my  lips 

When  most  the  phrases  clamor  to  be  sung, 

I  may  not  ape  the  ready  love  that  slips 

Like  beggar's  patter  from  a  smoother  tongue; 

I  blame,  who  envy:  yet,  beneath  the  Hand, 

The  silence  speaks  to  those  that  understand. 

Gold  of  the  sun,  and  wonder  of  the  days! 

Murrain  on  life,  to  lend  but  half  a  voice! 
How  may  I  bear  the  rapture  and  amaze 

Of  loving,  while  the  very  clods  rejoice? 
Yet  may  I  speak  my  part,  when  planets  see 
The  dim  Hand  leave  my  dumb  lips  spirit-free. 


THE  RAINBOW  CHASER 

I'VE  followed  my  restless  heart 

To  the  uttermost  ends  of  earth  — 
New  stars  arise  in  alien  skies, 

Yet  what  is  my  roving  worth? 
Have  I  wasted  my  wealth  of  years 

In  a  profitless  wayside  mart, 
And  garnered  a  crop  of  rue  and  tears 

From  heritage-seeds  of  dearth? 
Aye,  the  way  is  over-long, 

And  the  road  is  ever  new  — 
It  may  be  right  or  it  may  be  wrong 

And  my  love  be  false  or  true  — 
So  long  as  the  rainbow  hold, 

And  its  glittering  arch  extend, 
I'm  off  for  the  pot  of  fairy  gold 

On  a  road  without  an  end ! 

On  a  road  without  an  end  — 

Though  Fate  be  harsh  or  kind  — 

Ah,  Lore  may  sleep  and  eyes  may  weep, 
But  we've  left  the  world  behind! 

I've  followed  my  fleeting  love 

From  the  east  to  the  luring  west, 

And  north  and  south  through  flood  and  drouth 
I've  carried  my  soul's  unrest. 

Have  I  bartered  my  house  and  home, 
And  my  hopes  of  Heaven  above, 


For  a  castle  built  of  fairy  foam 

And  a  maiden's  merry  jest? 
Aye,  my  palace  of  a  dream 

May  be  over  far  away  — 
Ye  know,  who  follow  the  rainbow-gleam, 

How  dear  is  the  price  ye  pay ! 
Ye  know,  and  yet  ever  bold, 

Wherever  the  trail  may  trend, 
Ye're  off  for  the  pot  of  fairy  gold 

On  a  road  without  an  end ! 

On  a  road  without  an  end  — 
With  never  a  goal  to  -find  — 

Ah,  Love  may  die  and  so  may  7, 
But  we've  left  the  world  behind! 


[2] 


A  PAGAN'S  CREED 

A  FLOW  of  golden  shadows,  love  and  laughter, 

And  gleam  of  summer  tears; 
Bright   spectres   born   of   sunlight  —  and  then 
after 

Come  the  dead  years. 

For  what  is  life  without  the  loss  and  winning  — 

The  lure  of  lidded  glance, 
The  ecstasy  of  joyous-hearted  sinning, 

The  shadow-dance 

By  moonlight  down  an  ilex-hidden  hollow 

Of  mountain  solitudes, 

Where  the  dear  ghosts  of  dead  Bacchantes  fol 
low 

Through  haunted  woods? 

Life  is  a  pagan,  dancing  in  the  glamour 

Of  ruddy  sunset-light, 
Who  scorns  the  sequel  to  the  revel's  clamor  — 

Tears  in  the  night. 

So,  though  the  years  bring  dearth  of  easy  par 
don, 

And  wealth  of  barren  ground, 
Still  let  the  torchlight  waver  down  the  garden, 

The  cymbals  sound  — 


[3] 


Till,   through   the  panting,  bare-limbed   festal 
madness, 

With  the  red  morning-glow 
Comes  at  the  last  the  clear-eyed,  cynic  sadness 

The  wise  Gods  know. 


[4] 


THE  LIAR 

I  WROUGHT  me  a  lyric  of  fire  and  fear, 
And  called  on  the  world  to  heed  — 

Till  strong  men  blenched  at  my  haggard  face 
And  shuddered,  but  would  not  read. 

So  I  stole  me  the  gold  of  the  mines  of  Joy 

And  fashioned  a  conscious  lie  — 
And  they  gave  me  the  wreath  of  the  kings  of 
Song 

And  prayed  that  I  might  not  die ! 

(For  the  lie  that  I  wrought  was  as  old  as  the 
world 

And  dear  as  the  vision  of  Heaven  — 
Of  the  crimson  lure  of  a  maiden's  lips 

And  the  myth  of  a  sin  forgiven !) 

But  my  heart  was  sick,  and  my  soul  grew  less, 
With  the  light  of  my  failing  days, 

Because  I  had  lied  to  my  Knowledge-God 
For  the  pottage  of  human  praise. 

O  I  clung  to  the  rim  of  the  cliffs  of  Hell 

And  called  on  an  empty  Name  — 
Till  there  dropped  the  tears  of  a  weeping  Truth 

And  saved  my  soul  from  the  flame. 


[5] 


So  I  hid  my  soul  in  a  maiden's  hair, 
And  climbed  to  a  clearer  view  — 

And  I  found  I  had  lied  to  a  lying  God, 
And  the  myth  I  had  sung  —  was  true! 


[6] 


THE  SUN-WORSHIPPER 

O  PASSING  gods  of  passing  creeds 

That  droop  and  die  with  mortal  men ! 

Their  ages-long  procession  leads 

Through  darkness  to  the  Sun  again  - 

Poor  sorry  ghosts  that  wheel  and  flee 

Like  shadows  on  a  wind-swept  sea. 

For  since  we  bear  the  yoke  of  Faith 
And  cringe  to  feel  the  goad  of  Doubt, 

Our  tortured  Reason  weaves  a  Wraith 
Of  Godhead  we  would  die  without  — 

A  painted  dream  of  carven  plinths 

And  ghosts  in  man-wrought  labyrinths. 

Toys  of  a  thought!     The  fortune-wheel 

Of  myriad  vague  existences  ! 
Yet  hear  we  not  Thy  challenge  peal 

Across  the  blue-lit  distances? 
The  bannered  shout  at  morn  that  stirred 
Our  oldest  fathers  with  Thy  word. 

For  art  Thou  not  the  Primal  God  — 
The  Sun  that  watched  the  youth  of  Man 

That  touched  the  earth  his  children  trod, 
And  bade  it  live,  ere  gods  began  ? 

The  fertile  ploughland  laughs  that  sees 

The  births  and  deaths  of  deities ! 


[7] 


Thy  fingers  bless  the  swelling  bud, 
Thy  feet  are  gold  across  the  hill  — 

I  find  Thy  shrine  in  deepest  wood, 
Thy  magic  in  each  leaping  rill ; 

And  death  itself  Thy  pantomime  — 

A  scene-shift  on  the  stage  of  Time. 

So  bow  ye  then  to  nameless  lords 
Ye  may  not  feel,  or  see,  or  hear  — 

And  bind  the  Soul  in  precept-cords 
For  sacrifice  to  curtained  Fear ! 

Brother,  thy  creed  is  strong  to  save? 

I  cry  thee  comfort  in  thy  grave! 


[8] 


THE  LONELY  ROAD 

I  THINK  thou  waitest,  Love,  beyond  the  Gate  — 
Eager,  with  wind-stirred  ripples  in  thy  hair; 

I  have  not  found  thee,  and  the  hour  is  late, 
And  harsh  the  weight  I  bear. 

Far  have  I  sought,  and  flung  my  wealth  of  years 
Like  a  young  traveler,  gay  at  careless  inns  — 

See  how  the  wine-stain  whitens  'neath  the  tears 
My  burden  wins ! 

And  wilt  thou  know  me,  Love,  with  bended  back, 
Or  wilt  thou  scorn  me,  in  so  drear  a  guise  ? 

I  have  a  wealth  of  sorrows  in  my  pack, 
One  lonely  prize  — 

Thy  dream  —  and  dross  of  sin.  ...  0,  dim  the 
fields  — 

I  may  not  find  thee  in  so  dark  a  land  — 
Yet  I  await  what  hope  the  turning  yields 

And  beg  with  empty  hand. 


[9] 


THE  BLIND  GYPSY 

MY  world  is  girt  with  a  rampart  of  wonder  and 

shadow, 
Sunless  I  wander,  forlorn,  on  the  barrens  of 

Time  and  Space  — 
With  only  the  scent  of  the  sun  on  the  heather, 

the  song  o'er  the  meadow, 
The  dust  of  the  highway  warm  on  my  feet, 
and  the  wind  in  my  face. 

The  roads  that  I  knew  are  the  paths  of  an  in 
finite  terror, 
Treacherous,    threading    morasses    of    peril, 

abysses  of  night ; 
And  only  the  feel  of  the  wind  and  the  heat,  in 

my  mazes  of  error, 

To  whisper  of  dawn  or  of  noon,  and  the  dear 
lost  rapture  of  light. 

Yet,  with  the  sun  and  the  breeze  and  the  dust 

on  the  highway, 
Only,  O  Lord,  to  feel !  —  and  I  cling  to  Thy 

garment's  fold  - 
And  the  snapping  of  fires  that  I  may  not  see, 

by  the  hedge  in  the  byway, 
Is   the  crackle   of  flame-new  stars,    and   the 
clangor  of  gates  of  gold. 

[10] 


"  OUT  ON  THE  PATHS  OF  WONDER  " 

OUT  on  the  paths  of  wonder, 
Where  the  mountains  sit  with  their  feet  in  the 

white  sea-foam, 

And  the  wayward  lightnings  roam 
In  their  curtained  caves  of  fire, 
Till  the  wings  of  the  Hags  of  Night  are  riven 

asunder 
And  the  sea  is  pale  as  the  rags  of  a  tattered 

shroud  — 

Under  the  star-split  dome  of  driven  cloud 
I  walk  with  my  dead  desire. 

In  the  deeps  of  the  blue-lit  spaces, 
Where  the  Master  of  Shadow  is  lord,  and  the 

Silence  nods, 
The  glow  of  thine  eyes,  O  love,  is  a  flame  of 

rapture, 
And  the  sound  of  thy  whisper  the  music  of 

heavenly  places, 
And  the  net  of  thy  tresses  a  silken  snare  to 

capture 
The  hearts  of  the  careless  gods. 

Thy  feet  are  light  on  the  ramparts  of  earth 

and  heaven, 
Thy  limbs  are  wet  with  the  spray  of  the  Seas 

of  Years, 

EH] 


Thy  cheeks  are  gay  with  the  flush  of  the  Rose 

love-given, 

And  salt  with  the  wine  of  tears. 
Thy  lips  are  warm  and  sweet  with  thy  long 

bereaving, 
And  thy  breast  is  soft  with  the  pain  of  thy 

love  and  grieving. 

Over  the  lift  and  the  send 
Of  the  sea,  till  we  win  to  the  innermost  heart  of 

the  maze 
Of  the  web  of  the  Years  and  the  Days ! 

Till  the  riddle  of  Time 

Shall  ravel  and  fade  and  dissolve  to  the  utter 
most  end, 

And  the  heights  that  we  climb, 
The  wind-pitted  mountains  of  Air, 
Shall  flame  with  the  crown  and  the  splendor  and 
triumph  eternal 

Of  death,  till  I  cover  my  face  with  the  mesh  of 

thy  hair, 

At  the  glory  supernal ! 
For  the  Word  of  the  Lord  of  the  Gloom  shall 

be  drowned  in  singing, 

And  the  shores  of  the  Ocean  of  Terror  re 
sound  with  voices, 
And  the  vaults  and  the  arches  of  bottomless 

Shadow  be  ringing 

With  the  song  of  an  infinite  gladness, 
[12] 


Till  the  lowliest  depth  of  the  shambles  of  Sin 

rejoices 

In  the  grip  of  thy  great  love-madness. 
And  the  mightiest  Gods  of  the  Shadow  shall  flee 

at  the  light  of  thine  eyes, 
Beloved,  who  saith: 

//  ye  wander  with  Love  in  the  gardens  of  Para 
dise, 
Shall  ye  -flinch  at  the  -fingers  of  Death? 

Out  on  the  paths  of  wonder, 
Where  the  Master  of  Shadow  is  throned  on  the 

sea,  and  the  Silence  nods, 
I  walk  with  my  dead  desire  in  the  caves  of  the 

sleeping  thunder, 
And  mock  at  the  grim-eyed  gods. 


[13] 


THE  SEER 

I  MAY  not  tread  the  kindly  ways 
Where  trudge  the  feet  of  men, 

Nor  know  the  pride  of  honest  praise 
Or  flush  of  shame  again ; 

My  hearth-fire  is  the  fairy  blaze 
That  flits  above  the  fen. 

In  that  the  gift  is  mine  to  see 
A  hand's-breadth  i'  the  gloom, 

And  glimpse  through  curtained  mystery 
The  dim  To-morrow  loom, 

I  walk  the  woods  of  fantasie 
Where  fairy  flowers  bloom. 

O  I  have  wept  when  all  were  gay, 
And  Youth  and  Love  were  wed, 

For  I  have  seen  the  death-sark  sway 
Above  the  bridegroom's  head  — 

The  dead-hole  gape  across  the  way 
His  eager  feet  must  tread. 

Then  what  the  gift  (as  mortals  tell) 

To  walk  the  racing  tide, 
Or  with  the  ghosts  at  Olaf's  Well 

On  Lammas-floods  to  ride, 
When  I  have  heard  the  shadow-knell 

And  living  men  have  died? 

[14] 


THE  DREAM  MINSTREL 

ACROSS   the   world   from   Fairyland   the   winds 

have  blown  a  song  to  me  — 
(Harper,  wake  your  magic  in  the  old  grey 

hall) 
And  the  sunlight  on  the  flagging  is  a  patch  of 

tattered  blazonry, 

Shred  o'  fading  glory  on  the  dull  drab  wall. 
Turn  again  —  turn  again  —  see  the  weave  un 
ravelling  — 
(Harper,  set  you  back  again  the  grey  Fates' 

loom) 
Till  the  fields  are  gay  with  April  and  the  heart 

has  ceased  a-sorrowing  — 
(Lovers  in  the  orchard,  with  the  apple-trees 
in  bloom !) 

Across    the   world    from    Fairyland    the   little 

winds  have  flung  to  me 
Petals  of  the  wild  rose,  riotous  and  red, 
And  the  scent  of  summer  woodland  where  the 

sun-embroidered  tracery 
Gilds    the   moldy    carpet    of   the   old   year's 

dead ; 
Scent  of  happy  valleys,  and  the  treasure  of  the 

marigold, — 

(Happy,  sunny  valleys  in  the  Provinces  of 
Dream) 

[15] 


Hark  the  whisper,  lilting,  "  Love,  my  heart  is 

ever  thine  to  hold  — 
Ever  and  forever,  till  the  last  star's  gleam!  " 

"  Ever  and  forever  — "  but  the  wind  is  o'er  the 

hills  to  me, 
(The  blue  hills  o'  Faerie,  O  harper  in  the 

hall) 
Luring  on  to  follow  down  the  shadow-lane  of 

memory, 

Memory  as  faded  as  the  sunlight  on  the  wall. 
Turn    again  —  weave    again  —  set    the    loom 

ahead  again  — 

Summer-gold  is  darkening  to  hot,  blood  red; 
"  Ever  and  forever  —  forever  — "    Ah,  the  love 

o'  men ! 

(Harper,    still    your    magic,    ere    my    heart 
droop  dead !) 


[16] 


REACTION 

LAST    night    methinks    our    madness    won    to 

Truth  - 

There  in  the  starlit  temple  of  the  sky  — 
Stripped    for    the   nonce    our    cynic    robes    of 

Youth, 

Let  slip  our  creeds,  and  left  but  You  and  Me 
Stark  on  the  land's-end  of  philosophy. 

To-day  we  meet  with  faces  wrung  and  wry  — 
Poor  harlequins  in  masks  of  sanity ! 


[17] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  RED  FOOL 

THE  Jester  laughed  at  the  castle  gate 
(The  stone  was  grey,  and  the  iron  cold) 

And  sang  of  a  monarch  good  and  great 
Who  flung  a  Jester  a  purse  of  gold. 
(Mighty  the  king,  and  wise,  and  bold!) 

The  Baron  sat  at  his  window  high 

(0  his  hair  was  white,  but  the  month  was 

May) 
And  marked  a  hawk  in  the  empty  sky, 

And  a  budding  tree,  and  a  lamb  at  play. 

(Ragged  the  Fool,  but  the  song  was  gay.) 

The  Jester  shifted  his  scarlet  cloak 

(The  robe  was  torn,  but  the  cloth  was  red) 

And  rattled  his  battered  staff  of  oak 

On  the  barred  portcullis  above  his  head ; 
And  "  Ho !  "  cried  he.     "  Are  ye  drunk  or 
dead  ? 

"  For  the  gate  is  wide,  and  the  yeomen  sleep  — " 
(O  the  lord  was  -free  with  his  beef  and  beer) 

"  And  only  the  rooks  are  guarding  the  keep, 
With  all  Romance  at  the  portal  here ; 
Is   the  knight  so  great,  that   he  scorns  his 
gear?  " 


[18] 


The  yeomen  snored  in  the  sunlit  court, 

And  the  Baron  dreamed  at  his  window  high, 

As  the  Jester  crept  through  a  sally-port 
And  cast  about  with  a  searching  eye. 
(Drowsy  the  wind  from  the  sapphire  sky!) 

He  filled  him  full  with  the  Baron's  wine 

(The  grapes  are  plump  on  the  Spanish  hills) 

And  crowned  the  yeomen  with  columbine 
And  wreathed  a  vine  in  the  window-grills. 
(The  wine-cup  spattered  in  purple  rills.) 

He  found  him  pens  and  a  horn  of  ink 

And  parchment  fallow  for  tithe  and  tax, 

And  wrote  him  a  song  to  the  goblet's  clink, 
While  the  lizards  crept  from  the  pavement 

cracks  — 
(The  sun  was  bright  on  an  idle  axe.) 

He  wrote  him  a  song  of  a  stalwart  knight 
(0  a  knight  is  sad  for  the  want  of  a  maid) 

Who  followed  the  lure  of  a  gay  love-light 
Over  the  wide  world,  unafraid. 
(0  merry  the  carol  of  shield  and  blade!) 

He  weighted  the  scroll  with  an  empty  cup, 
And  left  it  plain  on  the  Penman's  board  — 

Where  the  flagons  at  hand  held  never  a  sup. 
(Heavy  the  book  that  the  Penman  pored, 
And  heady  the  wine  that  Barons  afford!) 

[19] 


The  Jester  reeled  in  a  tipsy  dance 

And  hummed  a  tune  of  a  knight  and  lass ; 

Quoth  he,  "  For  the  wine  I  have  paid  Romance, 
And  a  stave  to  carol  at  Michaelmas !  " 
(0  the  Spanish  wine  in  the  crystal  glass!) 

So  he  laughed  away  through  the  portal's  gloom 
(Tlie  sun  was  gold  and  the  sky  was  blue) 

While  the  Baron  dreamed  in  his  tower  room 
Of  a  joust,  and  a  lady  fair  and  true. 
(The  love  was  old,  but  the  dream  was  new.) 

Then    the    Penman    yawned    and    blinked    and 

stirred 

(O  flagons  of  wine  and  a  hunch  of  bread!) 
And  his  thought  was  slow  as  a  wounded  bird, 
And  he  dreamed  he  had  written  the  song  that 

he  read, 
By  the  grace  of  God  and  a  muddled  head ! 

They  gave  him  a  wreath  and  a  purse  of  gold 
(0  songs  of  jousts  and  a  lady  fair!) 

And  a  velvet  mantle  to  turn  the  cold, 
And  he  sat  at  meat  in  a  carven  chair, 
With  the  laurel  twined  in  his  scanty  hair. 

The  Jester  slept  in  the  ditch  below 

(0  wme  of  Spam,  with  its  fire  and  pride!) 

And  what  ever  came  of  him  none  may  know  — 
But  the  Penman  sat  at  the  Baron's  side. 
(Smg  hey,  Romance  and  the  world  so  wide!) 
[20] 


JACK  0'  VISIONS 

JACK  o'  Visions,  dreaming  in  the  firelight, 
What's  the  picture  in  the  embers'  glow? 

'Tis  but  the  flame  of  wasted  summers,  fading, 
To  die  in  winter  snow. 

And  what  care  you  for  summer  and  its  wasting, 
Grey-headed  Jack,  who  hugs  the  dulling  fire? 

'Tis  but  that  Youth  is  such  a  sorry  spendthrift, 
And  dreams  are  his  desire. 

And  may  they  not  be  worthy  of  the  spending, 
O  cynic  Jack,  the  dreams  he  never  won? 

They  are  not  worth  one  magic  day  in  April 
A-lilt  with  wind  and  sun. 

Ah,  Jack,  but  see  them,  how  they  flutter  gleam 
ing — 

Like  tropic  birds  that  sailors  trade  for  gold ! 
/'  faith,  they  be  as  fleet  and  hard  to  capture, 

And  droop  in  autumn  cold. 

Then  say  what  Youth  may  buy  with  all  his 

riches, 

His  Ophir-horde  of  newly-minted  years ! 
Why,    let   him  purchase   Love   and    War    and 

Laughter, 
And  wine  of  honest  tears. 

[21] 


What  say  you?     'Tis  a  dole  we  hold  in  com 
mon  — 

The  draught  of  Life  we  do  not  need  to  buy. 
Alas,  yet  there  be  many  who  go  thirsting, 

Nor  prize  it  till  they  die. 


FAUNUS  AT  THE  CROSS 

As  I  followed  the  feet  of  the  sun  on  the  wind 
swept  hills, 
When  the  light-flung  gold  of  the  spring  was 

gay  on  the  grass, 

I  caught  through  the  careless  laughter  of  loos 
ened  rills 

From  the  church  in  the  valley  the  drone  of 
the  priests  at  Mass. 

And  I  looked  at  the  dun  grey  House,  and  the 

heavens  above, 
While  I  stood  with  the  wind  in  my  face  and 

the  sun  on  my  head, 
And  learned  of  the  passion  of  Christ   (but  I 

dreamed  of  Love) 

And  the  bright-lipped  wounds  (were  they  red 
as  the  rose  was  red?) 

Then  my  heart  leaped  up  like  a  stag  at  the 

shadow  of  fear, 
For  I  glimpsed  in  a  vision  the  loom  of  the 

Altar  of  Pain  — 
And  the  flare  of  its  terror  was  torture  to  blast 

and  sear, 

Yet   fair  was   the   snow-white  brow  with  its 
crimson  stain ! 

[S3] 


So  I  plucked  me  a  red,  red  wreath  where  the 

sunbeams  slept  — 

"  Let  Beauty  to  Beauty  be  brought  as  a  gar 
land,"  I  cried, 
And  I  covered  the   Thorns  with  a   chaplet  of 

roses,  and  wept 

For  the  grace  of  the  blood-stained  limbs  that 
had  drooped  and  died  — 

When  sudden  the  folds  of  the  Vision  were  sun 
dered,  and  there 
At  the  shrine  of  the  Pale-Browed  God  in  my 

terror  I  stood, 
And  the  satin-skinned  petals  fell  slow  through 

the  spice-drugged  air, 

And  redder  they  lay  on  the  stones  than  the 
painted  blood. 

O  I  shrank  from  the  grim-mouthed  priests  and 

their  harrying  spell, 
Till  the  curses  ran  out  from  the  Cross  and 

pursued  as  I  fled ; 
But  I  bent  to  the  rose-wreathed  Christ  in  a  last 

farewell, 

And  the  pure  lips  flashed  to  a  smile  and  were 
soft  and  red  — 

While  a  whisper  as  light  as  the  whorls  of  the 

censers'  smoke 

Wrapped   me   in   wonder   and   crept    to   the 
doors  of  my  ears  — 
[24] 


Fear  not!  Be  it  grace  of  the  Rose,  or  the 
strength  of  the  Oak, 

Through  both  is  my  heart,  when  ye  bow  be 
fore  Beauty  with  tears!  " 


[25] 


A  HARBOR  SONG 

THEKE'S  a  schooner  in  the,  offing,  with  the  sun 
set  in  her  sails  — 

She's  black  as  death  across  the  west  where  slow 
the  splendour  fails ; 

There's  an  evil  wind  from  out  the  east  that 
backs  against  the  day, 

But  she's  shaking  out  her  headsails  for  the 
saunter  down  the  bay. 

There's  a  trail  of  ruddy  cloth-of-gold  that  runs 

to  meet  the  Sun  — 
The  path  is  plain  before  her,  but  her  road  is 

never  done; 
She  may  not  stay  for  prize  or  pay,  for  love  or 

law  or  hire, 
When  she  harks  to  old  Ulysses  in  his  Islands  of 

Desire ! 

O  the  hills  that  fade  behind  her  know  the  touch 
of  fairy  feet, 

The  pipes  of  Pan  are  lilting  clear  from  field  to 
village  street; 

And  Spring  is  in  the  orchard-row,  though  sad 
dened  hearts  may  break  — 

But  she's  dropping  down  the  harbor  with  her 
shadow  on  her  wake. 


[26] 


So  it's  hide  away  your  hope,  my  love,  and  lay 
away  your  fears ; 

Your  dreams  are  all  behind  you,  with  the  rap 
ture  and  the  tears ; 

'Tis  a  sorry  trick  of  tops'ls  —  to  catch  the  sun 
set  so  — 

When  dying  Love-iwll-keep-him  turns  to  Love- 
has-bade-him-go  ! 

O,  it's  roll  her  down  to  westward,  for  the  prom 
ise  of  the  Sun ! 

Can  lure  of  woman  hold  the  hearts  the  mother 
sea  has  won? 

They  may  not  stay  for  prize  or  pay,  for  love 
or  law  or  hire, 

When  they  hark  to  old  Ulysses  in  his  Islands  of 
Desire ! 


[27] 


A  WAYSIDE  PARABLE 

A  WIND  ran  over  the  western  hill 

And  the  dust  of  the  road  was  gay, 
But  the  little  smoke  of  the  wayside  fire 

Was  lost  in  the  twilight-grey. 
Said  the  Dust,  "  There  is  hope  for  the  morn," 

Said  the  Fire,  "  Ere  the  morn,  I  die," 
And  its  ghost  rose  up  to  the  vaulted  roof 

Of  the  temple-hall  of  the  sky. 

The  wind  slipped  over  the  purpling  crest 

With  a  mantle  of  trailing  cloud, 
And  spread  the  Dust  on  the  sleeping  earth 

In  a  great  grey  tattered  shroud. 
And  the  hill  was  lost  in  a  veil 

Of  the  dark  wet  hair  of  the  rain, 
Till  the  spark  of  a  Fire  hailed  the  quickening 
east 

And  the  dim  smoke  curled  again. 

The  wind  strode  in  with  the  lifting  sun 

And  the  smoke  of  the  fire  was  gay  — 
But  the  Dust  was  dead  in  the  silver  pools 

That  laughed  with  the  laughing  day. 
Sang  the  wind,  "  Did  ye  fear,  ere  ye  drooped 
and  died  — 

Did  ye  doubt  what  the  Prophets  said?  " 
And  the  new  Fire  snapped  on  its  chrysalis-ash, 

"  Not  I !     But  when  was  /  dead?  " 
[f8] 


THE  SORROW-EATER 

WHY  dost  thou  play  'tis  thy  dead  love's  heart 
That  beats  in  the  gloom  beside  thee? 

Surely  thou  learnest  the  minstrel's  art, 
So  close  in  thy  dream  to  hide  thee ! 

Why  dost  thou  play  'tis  thy  dead  love's  hair 
That  nets  with  its  silk  thy  shoulder? 

(Tricks  of  a  harlot  not  overly  fair  — 
Ah,  brother,  thy  heart  grows  colder!) 

Why  dost  thou  play  'tis  thy  dead  love's  kiss 
So  fresh  on  thy  lips  and  burning? 

—  Peace!  I  have  tasted  the  flame-hot  bliss 
That  comes  with  a  griefs  returning. 


[39] 


VESPER  SONG  ON  THE  OPEN  ROAD 

As  a  ribbon  of  raw  red  copper  the  road  runs 

into  the  west, 
Looping  the  flanks  of  the  mountain-ranks  like 

a  chain  on  a  maiden's  breast  — 
The  road  that  swerves  and  dips  and  curves  till 

it  drops  to  the  far  sea-rim, 

Where  the  trampling  feet  of  the  breakers  beat 
in  a  marching  battle-hymn. 
For  it's  0  my  love, 
Let  tlie  stars  above 
That  burn  on  tlie  bier  of  Day, 

Blazon  our  path  through  the  Chaos- 
wrath, 
Ten  million  worlds  away! 

The  rim  of  the  Shield  of  the  Master  sinks,  but 

His  helmet-plumes  are  high  — 
Flaunting  in  crimson  and  taunting  the  shadows 

that  creep  to  the  zenith-sky ; 
The  road  is  a  ribbon  of  Romany  red  in  the  hair 

of  the  gypsy  earth, 

And  the  trembling  seas  on  a  loom  of  breeze  are 
veiling  her  heart's  unworth. 
For  it's  0  my  love, 
When  the  stars  above 
Are  witching  our  feet  astray, 

Fear  ye  to  wend  to  the  Cosmos-End, 
Ten  million  worlds  away? 
[30] 


The  silver  spear  of  the  horned  moon  is  spurring 

the  steeds  of  Night, 
And  it's  haste,  ah,  haste,  ere  the  sun-gold  waste 

and  wane  in  her  altar-light! 
For  though  love-shod  through  the  paths  untrod 

of  the  valley  of  Death  we  run, 
Yet  hand-in-hand  we  may  breathless  stand,  and 
weep  that  the  road  be  done ! 
For  it's  0  my  love, 
Let  the  stars  above 
That  burn  on  the  bier  of  Day, 

Lead  us  to  meet  at  the  Master's  feet, 
Ten  million  worlds  away! 


[31] 


ATHEISM 

I  DREAMED  one  night  that  I  was  lost  among 
The  sounding  mazes  of  an  endless  vault, 
Deep-wrought  from  living  stone,  where  spirits 

halt 

Their  fearful  flitting,  and  where  grinning  hung 
Dry,  monstrous  skeletons,  and  corpses  clung 
To  crosses  for  some  unforgotten  fault  — 
While  dumb  lips   prayed  that  hidden   Gods  . 

exalt 

Accursed  souls  long  since  from  Heaven 
flung.   .  .   . 

But  lo,  deep  in  the  shambles'  midmost  cell 

There  shone  a   lamp,   and  by   it,   stern   and 

stark, 

Amidst  a  sea  of  books,  a  figure  sat 
That  scorned  the  light  and  faced  the  empty 

dark  — 

That  seemed  a  God  itself  —  yet  could  not  tell 
What  in  the  shadows  it  was  staring  at. 


[32] 


A  FINANCIAL  TRANSACTION 

"I'M   in   horrible  want,"   quoth   the   shivering 
bard. 

"  Can't  I  manage  to  raise  a  loan? 
I've  some  property  left,   though   to  risk  it   is 
hard, 

For  'tis  all  I  can  call  my  own. 
But  hey,  for  the  red  of  the  wine  and  the  rose !  — 

I'll  give  you  an  ample  gain  — 
If  I  don't  pay  up,  you  may  straight  foreclose 

On  my  wonderful  Castle  in  Spain !  " 

So    the   Usurer   World    gave   him    treasure   o' 
dreams 

On  the  pledge  of  his  mortgaged  towers ; 
But  he  couldn't  pay  up,  for  he  squandered,  it 
seems, 

Every  ducat  on  wine  and  flowers. 
Yet  the  grim  old  Broker,  with  never  a  tear, 

Charged  an  interest-rate  of  Pain  — 
Evicted  the  Poet,  and  then  (as  I  hear) 

Moved  into  the  Castle  in  Spain! 


[33] 


THE  OLD  LOVERS 

WE  meet  in  a  sorrowful  land 

That  is  hard  by  the  gates  of  death  — 
A  smile,  and  a  touch  of  the  hand, 
As  the  sunset's  flaming  brand 
Flickers  and  fails  in  the  west 

With  the  day-wind's  dying  breath  — 
'Tis  the  most  we  may  dare,  and  best. 

They  say  that  the  passion  is  cold  — 

That  the  flame  is  dead  in  the  heart ; 
"  Good  friends,  that  have  loved  of  old, 
Once  more,  in  the  sunset-gold, 
Meet  with  a  clasp  of  the  hand, 

Nod  and  dream  and  depart  — " 
Ah,  love,  'tis  a  sorrowful  land! 

I  that  have  walked  in  a  cloud, 

You  that  have  wept  in  the  sun  — 

Wrinkled  and  wearied  and  bowed, 

Cover  the  wound!     Be  proud! 

Laugh  —  be  it  Hell  the  while  - 

That  the  world,  ere  the  Hell  be  done, 

May  watch  with  a  kindly  smile. 


[34] 


A  WESTERN  OCEAN  LYRIC 

THERE'S  a  wind  that  treads  the  water 

With  tramp  of  sullen  feet, 
And  grim  and  gray  the  westers  play 

With  knives  of  driven  sleet; 
Our  bows  are  shod  with  silver, 

But  purple-dark  and  cold 
The  shadows  fly  across  the  sky 

To  dim  the  sunset-gold. 

0  cursed  be  all  the  breezes 

That  hedge  the  west  in  cloud, 
And  twice  and  thrice,  the  crusted  ice 

That  clings  to  stay  and  shroud! 
Against  the  light  the  foremast 

Is  bright  with  frozen  mail  — 
The  decks  are  gray  with  flying  spray 

And  rough  with  spattered  hail. 

There's  a  fog  that  numbs  the  ocean 

To  smoky  deeps  where  hide 
The  noisy  hosts  of  hooting  ghosts 

That  warn  from  overside ; 
O  cursed  be  all  the  shadows 

Of  bank  and  shoal  and  bar, 
And  send  us  clear  the  silver  spear 

That  arms  an  honest  star! 


[35] 


THE  SATIRIST 

I  TOOK  a  snatch  of  sun-wrack,  and  a  whiff 
Of  south-wind  laden  with  the  drone  of  surf 
That  booms  on  golden  shores,  where  palm-roots 

run 

In  tangled  webs  to  taste  the  milk-warm  wave : 
(So  keeps  the  Sea  her  children-isles  of  dream, 
And  calls  her  exiled  dreamers  home  again.) 
Of  these  I  wove  a  song  —  and  all  the  years 
Fled  ghost-like,  vanished,  dropped  me  swift  to 

youth, 

And  gave  me  back  Hesperides.     Ay,  Love, 
That  left  me,  laughing,  aeons  past,  and  hid  — 
(Bare,    sun-kissed    shoulders    glinting   through 

the  maze 
Of    rat  a    twining    'mid    the    tree- trunks!)  — 

seemed 

To  loose  for  me  the  dark  flood  of  her  hair 
And  drown  me  in  it.  ...  —  When  I  strove  to 

sing 

My  song  to  other  men,  and  let  the  world 
Share  but  a  fraction  of  my  joy  and  pain, 
What  said  they?  "  Lo,  the  song  is  old  and 

sad  — 

Why  more  of  it?     'Twas  well  sung  long  ago, 
To  smoother  music."     So  I  took  a  bar 
Of  blood-wrought  steel,  and  spun  it  into  thread 
Bright,  cold,  and  sharp  as  dust  of  diamonds. 

Then 

[36] 


I  wove  it  on  a  loom  of  artifice, 

Lent  it  a  gargoyle's  grin,  called  it  a  song, 

And  turned  it  loose.     And  all  the  world  cried 

"  Hail! 
Here  sings  a  bard  whose  voice  will  never  die!  " 


[37] 


IN  A  CONVENT  GARDEN 

YOUNG    love,    strong   love,    meeting    'mid    the 

roses ! 
Dare  ye  think  of  loving,  where  the  plaster  Mary 

poses  ? 

Better  Pan  should  roister 
In  the  shade  of  hallowed  cloister !  - 
Idle   droops   the   rosary  —  what  paganry   dis 
closes  ! 

True  love,  new  love,  dancing  down  the  ages  - 
Mocking  at  the  precepts  and  the  parables  of 

sages ! 

Balance  they  the  blisses 
Of  a  hundred  stolen  kisses 

Snatched  while  Mother  Beatrice  was  nodding 
o'er  the  pages  ? 

Old  love,  bold  love,  weary  with  its  madness ! 
Mock  ye,  then,  at  April  with  its  glamour  and 

its  gladness? 

Since  ye  know  the  sorrows 
Of  a  hundred  spent  To-morrows, 
Dream  ye  that  your  day  is  done,  and  fading 
into  sadness? 


[38] 


Sad  love,  mad  love!     Leap  ye,  then,  to  waking? 
Light  ye  bear  the  burden  of  the  grieving  and 

forsaking ! 

Lips  that  sip  of  laughter 
Learn  the  tang  of  sorrow  after  — 
Learn,  and  drink  in  silence,  while  the  gayer 
hearts  are  breaking! 


[39] 


THE  DEGENERATE  SPEAKS 

I  SEE  you  pass  like  a  wayward  god  in  a  robe  of 

wonder, 
Prince  of  the  realms  of  Youth,  with  the  flame 

in  your  eyes  — 
Shoulders  that  jostle  the  hats  of  the  mob,  till 

it  wavers  asunder, 

Splitting  in  torrents  of  hurrying  faces,  drab 
as  the  skies. 

The  clouds  are  low  where  the  clanging  streets 

of  the  demon-city 
Raise  to  the  heavens  the  reek  of  their  grooved 

ravines, 
And  you  come  like  a  sprite  of  the  sun,  with  a 

present  of  pity  — 

Pity  that   stings  like  a  helot's  lash,  in  our 
hell-demesnes ! 

Ay,  saw  you  me  too  ?  —  with  the  leaden  stare 

and  the  drooping  shoulder  — 
Furtive,  mean,  with  the  brand  of  the  Rat  in 

my  face? 
—  Weary  with  years  ?     By  the  years,  it  is  you 

are  the  older  — 

You,  with  the  youth-hot  passionate  eyes,  and 
the  dancer's  grace! 


[40] 


The  chance  was  mine,  and  the  fault  was  mine, 

and  the  sorrow  and  sighing, 
But  I  was  weary,  too  weary  to  grieve,  from 

the  first ; 
Ay,  and  the  gateway  of  Peace  and  Forgetting, 

that  comforts  the  dying, 
Careless  the  Gods  left  wide  —  I  was  mothered 
accurst. 

O  eyes  that  follow  the  cycle  of  life  in  eternal 

revolving ! 
Pity,  my  gay  Greek  god,  the  slave  on   the 

treadmill  of  Time! 
Mad?,    I  am  mad  with  the  direst  of  sanities! 

This  the  absolving  — 

That  I  should  dance  in  the  revel  of  Youth 
like  a  painted  mime. 

The  trailing  folds  of  the  curtain  of  Birth  are  in 

tatters  — 
See  how  the  torrents  of  Time  unveil  —  how 

the  lives  are  massed ! 
What  —  you  would  help  me?     O  blindness  of 

life!     As  if  Charity  matters  — 
Matters  to  me,  with  my  youth  —  a  century 
deep  in  the  past ! 


[41] 


PSYCHE  KARDIOU 

THERE  is  a  ghost  that  arms  the  hearts  of  men 
Till  Death  the  victor  fails,  allied  with  Fear  — 
Till  Sorrow  stoops  to  comfort,  and  each  tear 

Glints  like  a  dewdrop  touched  by  morn  again ; 

Some  name  it  Faith,  that  lights  the  darksome 

fen 

Of  worldly  doubt;  some  call  it  Insight  clear; 
Some  Love ;  some  Reason  stark  in  robes  aus 
tere, 

Or  crash  of  battle  down  a  hostile  glen. 

Yet  for  the  war  what  arms  I  bear  I  owe 
To  a  dim  ghost-soul  that  I  may  not  free, 
That  feels  the  stir  of  wind,  the  beat  of  sea, 

And  neither  Faith  nor  Reason,  dares  to  know! 

What  would  I  be  without  my  spectre?     Lo! 
A  craven,  clutching  at  Eternity ! 


[42] 


A  VAGABOND'S  PRAYER  TO  LIFE 

LIFE,  for  the  span  of  a  day, 

For  a  morn,  for  an  hour, 
Ere  I  am  weary  and  old 

Give  me  power  to  pay  — 
Pay  with  the  red  sun-gold 

And  the  dew  on  the  flower, 
Debts  that  I  owe  to  the  gods 

Of  the  lonely  way. 

In  that  I  dared  it  alone 

Through  the  sun  and  the  shadow, 
Deeming  the  House  of  the  Skies 

But  the  roof  of  mine  own, 
Give  me  at  length  to  surprise 

With  the  lark  o'er  the  meadow 
Themes  of  the  songs  of  the  gods 

By  the  winds  new-blown. 

This  —  and  my  father,  the  Sun, 

For  a  friend,  for  a  neighbor  — 
Lending  the  world  for  the  field 

Of  a  gay  fight  won  — 
Lo,  with  the  dawning  revealed 

Lie  the  goals  of  my  labor ! 
Roads  that  are  marked  by  the  gods 

Ere  my  strength  be  done. 


[43] 


Yet,  when  I  wake  to  the  day 

That  shall  dawn  on  my  garden, 
In  that  I  journeyed  alone 

Give  me  friends,  to  repay ! 
Friends  with  the  sins  to  atone 

That  shall  win  me  their  pardon  — 
Debtors  with  me  to  the  gods 

Of  the  lonely  way  ! 


[44] 


THE  PENCIL  PEDDLER 

EARTH  and  its  glory,  the  rain  and  the  sunlight 

on  oceans  unsounded, 
Life  and  its  magic,  the  pain  and  the  pleasure, 

the  rapture  unbounded, 

Love  and  its  scented  abysses  of  torture  rose- 
hidden  — 

All  except  Death  have  I  known,  that  alone 
was  forbidden. 

Passers  that  brush  me,  nor  heed  me,  the  cripple 

that  squats  in  the  gutter, 

Would  ye  could  read,  'neath  the  lip's  ready  pat 
ter,  the  curses  I  mutter! 
Once  was  I  also  a  Man,  in  the  flush  of  my 

passion ;  — 

Hated,  loved,  even  as  you  —  pitied,  too,  in 
my  fashion ! 

Even  as  you,  O  my  brothers  in  masking !     And 

this  the  finale  — 
Limping  so  slowly  on  leather-shod  stumps,  may 

I  win  to  the  Valley? 

Fling  me  a  copper  —  my  blessing,  that  for 
tune  should  fall  so ; 

Spurn  me  —  and   mind  not  my   curses,   for 
thus  was  I,  also. 


[45] 


THE  OLD  VOYAGERS 

THERE'S  a  trumpet-call  at  twilight,  when  the 

world  is  grey  with  sorrow  — 
Monotones    of    sorrow    where    the    dimming 

ocean  lies  — 
And  our  pallid  dead  romances  are  the  promise 

of  a  morrow 
Far  and  fading  into  shadow  where  the  last 

flame  dies ; 
Far  and  fading  —  can  ye  see  it  —  can  ye  feel  it 

—  can  ye  hear  it  — 

It  is  lost  beyond  the  limit  of  the  lost  horizon- 
rim; 
In   our  day   we   lived   on   darkness !     Now   the 

light  has  come  to  clear  it, 
And  we  brought   the  light,  who  loved  it  — 
would  to  God  we'd  left  it  dim ! 

Would  to  God  we'd  left  the  blankness  and  the 

mystery  and  luring 
Of  the  empty  places  whispering  of  Ophir  and 

Cathay, 
Of  the  open,  shoreless  ocean,  with  its  triumphs 

of  enduring, 
And  the  dawning  and  the  sunset  on  the  lone 

sea-way ! 
Of  the  magic  islands  lifting,  hiding  dim  Cibola- 

cities, 

[46] 


Dim   and   hidden,    dream-embattled,    golden- 

streeted,  silver-walled  — 
But  we  proved  them  —  and  we  lost  them  —  lend 

us  mercy,  Lord  of  Pities  !  - 
For  it  seemed  the  Earth  was  endless  —  could 

we  help  it  —  we  were  called. 

There's    a    trumpet-call    at    twilight,    but    our 

blades  are  dull  and  rusted, 
And  the  caravels  are  rotting  at  the  Quay  of 

Missing  Ships, 
And  the  fever-ridden  harbors  where  we  drank 

and  died  and  lusted, 

Lo,  they  glimmer  into  nothings  with  the  chan 
teys  on  our  lips ! 
We  are  spectres  of  adventure,  but  we  haunt  ye 

till  ye  need  us, 
Though  the  world  is  planned  and  plotted  by 

the  torment  of  our  wars  ; 
We  are  waiting  in  the  Shadow  till  our  kinsmen 

hear  and  heed  us  — 

Till  they  stamp  the  Earth  beneath  them  and 
are  gay  amid  the  stars! 


[47] 


ENNUYE 

O,  ONCE  I  played  at  passion  well, 

Till  all  the  world  believed ; 
And  hearts  were  jealous  when  I  loved, 

And  sorrowed  when  I  grieved. 
But  deep  within  me  grinned  a  Self 

That  would  not  be  deceived. 

"  O,  'tis  a  jest,"  the  Spirit  laughed, 
"  The  human  trick  to  steal ! 

Where  got  you  courage  for  the  play? 
I  know  you  cannot  feel. 

Oho !     'Tis  such  a  roaring  farce, 
I  weep  it  is  not  real ! 

"  My  friend,  how  won  you  right  to  sing, 
Or  passion's  harp  to  strum? 

Yet  lips  had  never  sung  so  true 
Had  not  the  heart  been  dumb ; 

Your  fingers  never  found  the  chords  — 
Aye,  what  had  you  become? 

"  An  infant,  babbling  silly  woes  !  — 
So  play  the  mimic  through ! 

Be  brave !  "     But  I  had  lost  my  mask, 
And  could  not  find  a  new ; 

And  'twas  at  best  a  weary  play  - 
I  wept  it  had  been  true. 

[48] 


THE  EXILE 

I  HAVE  known  the  joy  of  the  upland,  the  peaks 

and  the  buttress-hills, 
The  rock-sown  windy  barrens,  new-ploughed 

by  the  'shares  of  God ; 
The  drone  of  the  harp  o'  the  tempest,  and  the 

small,  clear  song  of  the  rills, 
And  the  crest  flame-tipped  in  the  dawning,  at 
the  touch  of  an  angel's  rod  — 

I  have  known  the  wrath  of  the  upland,  the  tem 
pled  courts  of  the  clouds, 
The  threat  of  the  storm-flung  robes  of  snow 

that  drop  from  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  my  heart  is  sick  for  the  harvest  wind,  for 

the  fields  in  their  tawny  shrouds, 
For  a  lamplit  pane,  and  a  plainsman's  hearth, 
and  —  rest. 

O  a  man  can  pray  in  the  upland,  in  the  vaulted 

church  of  the  sky, 
And  walk  with  Jove  where  the  Titans  raged, 

at  the  wrath  of  His  face ; 
But  I,  who  am  bred  to  the  arch  of  the  stars,  I 

will  go  to  the  plains  to  die, 
And  tune  my  heart  to  the  hymn  of  the  storm 
on  the  floors  of  space. 


[49] 


OUTCAST 

LOVE  that  was  light  as  a  breeze  at  dawn  — 

How  should  we  stoop  to  fearing? 
Cowards  that  pander  and  slaves  that  fawn  — 
Hounds  that  snuff  at  the  trail  we  trod  — 
We,  that  are  safe  on  the  knees  of  God, 
Heed  we  their  ill-hid  sneering, 
Love  that  was  pure  as  the  dawn? 

Do  the  will-o'-the-wisp  and  the  witch-fire  heed 
What  the  dull  world  thinks  of  the  paths  they 
lead? 

Nay  —  let  us  say 

That  the  wings  of  day 
Are  ours  to  wander  a  world  away, 
And  not  that,  driven  and  shamed  and  blind, 
We  left  the  sheltering  Pale  behind ! 

Ah,  let  us  live 

With  the  bee  on  the  flower  — 

Forget  and  forgive 

With  the  hurrying  hour ! 
Till  a  love  miscalled  and  a  jest  misread, 
Till  a  pampered  lie  and  a  truth  unsaid, 
Die  with  the  sting  of  a  burnt-out  scorn  — 
Love  that  was  pure  as  an  April  morn ! 

'Twas  a  half-meant  kiss 

And  a  head  on  a  shoulder  — 

At  the  first  but  this  — 
Yet,  suddenly  older, 
[50] 


We  stood  guilt-marked  in  the  world-old  Court, 
Where  a  pious  grey  rake  held  the  judge's 

chair, 

And  were  tried  for  a  "  crime  of  the  baser  sort  " 
That   the  "good"   may   envy,  but  scarcely 

dare.   .   .   . 
O  heart  of  my  heart, 

Shall  the  lying  creed 
In  our  world  apart 

Bid  us  hide,  or  heed? 
Let  us  laugh,  though  our  motley  be  beggars' 

tatters ; 
True  love,  true  love,  is  there  aught  else  matters  ? 

Since  we  have  won  to  the  knees  of  God, 

Why  should  the  world  be  jealous? 
That  there's  no  return  by  the  road  we  trod 

Need  we  the  world  to  tell  us? 
Laugh  and  be  gay !     Do  the  witch-fires  heed 
What  the  dull  world  thinks  of  the  paths  they 

lead? 
We  have  won   unsmirched   through   the   sneers 

and  scorn 

Out  into  Life  from  a  land  forlorn, 
Out  from  the  Dark  to  the  blaze  of  the  sun  — 
Would  you  wish,  at  the  ending,  the  deed  undone, 
Love  that  is  pure  as  an  April  morn? 


[51] 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  PRAYER 

LET  me  not  live,  O  Time,  to  be  old  and  weary  — 
Thou,  who  art  God  of  all  Gods,  and  King  of 

all  Kings  — 
Let  me  not  walk  like  a  ghost  in  the  sun,  and 

dreary 

Harken  with  ears  long-dead  when  the  wood- 
thrush  sings  — 

Let  me  not  wake  on  a  day  when  the  pennoned 

morning 
Brightens  on  eyes  unheeding,  and  cheeks  un- 

flushed ; 
Let  me  not  darken  the  world  with  my  misery, 

scorning 

Joy  of  the  birds,  and  whisper  of  wind  dawn- 
hushed  — 

But  let  me  die  with  my  heart  still  gay  with  the 

tourney, 
Facing  the  Dark  with  a  song  on  my  lips,  and 

my  feet 
Light  on  the  threshold  that  calls  to  the  last  long 

j  ourney 

Over  the  far  blue  hills  where  the  highways 
meet! 


[52] 


DUST 

ACROSS  the  ridge  the  barren  earth  runs  down  — 

Gay,    vagrant   dust    that    shifts    with    every 
breeze  — 

Over  the  hill-crest  weaving  mysteries, 
Against  the  sun's  face  wreathing  thee  a  crown ! 
Jester  of  ages,  robed  in  grey  and  brown, 

See  how  it  wraps  thee,  Love,  with  fantasies ! 

Till  like  a  priestess,  gold-bathed  to  the  knees, 
Thou  standest  shimmering  in  thy  saffron  gown. 

Dust  that  is  swift  to  hide  or  blind  or  dim, 
Yet  that  is  rose-haze  in  the  sunset-glow! 

Sweeping  across  autumnal  fields,  to  skim 

Like  wrack  o'  dreams  along  each  barren  row. 

Dare  we  despise  it?     Look  ye,  down  the  sky 

Drop  with  the  moon  the  star-dust  nebulae. 


[53] 


THE  CABIN-BOYS 

IN   the  days  when  old  New  England  was  the 

half  of  all  the  nation, 

And  the  Injuns  and  Virginnys  made  the  bal 
ance  of  the  land, 
We    were    starting    life    as    farmers  —  and    we 

worked  to  beat  creation 

Tilling  barren-gutted  valleys,  clearing  boul 
ders,  ploughing  sand. 
We  were  humble  sons  of  farmers, 
Simple,  slaving  sons  of  farmers, 
Sons  of  heavy-handed  farmers,  who  were  hon 
est  as  could  be  — 
But  we  heard  a  tale  of  pirates 
(Good  old  brazen-hearted  pirates!) 
And  we  wanted  to  be  pirates,  so  we  ran  away 
to  sea! 

Aye,  we  heard  a  tale  of  islands  ringed  with  pearl 

on  seas  of  beryl, 
Where  the  dawning  leaped  to  meet  you,  like 

a  lover,  from  the  night, 
And  of  golden-streeted  cities  hid  in  jungles  gay 

with  peril, 
Where   the   rivers   lured   to   follow   with  the 

word  of  new  delight ; 
Aye,  we  heard  a  tale  of  cities, 
Hundred-gated  wonder-cities, 


Mystic,  lost,  Cibola-cities,  tales  as  true  as 

true  could  be  — 

All  the  yarns  of  bright  adventure, 
(Ever-new-and-old  Adventure!) 
And  the  whisper  of  its  wonder  drew  us  seek 
ing  out  to  sea, 

So  we  tramped  away  to  Marblehead,  to  Salem 

and  to  Glo'ster  — 
(O,  just  to  sniff  the  tar  and  see  the  rocking 

riding-lights !) 
But   Fortuna    ran   before    us   till   we   followed, 

found,  and  lost  her 
Like  a  vision  in  the  doldrums  of  forbidden 

island-heights ! 

Aye,  we  dropped  away  to  seaward  - 
Wing-and-wing  we  swept  to  seaward  - 
And  the  mate,  lie  was  a  pirate,  just  as  plain 

as  plain  could  be ; 
But  we  never  found  an  ingot  — 
Not  a  single,  blessed  ingot !  — 
Though  they  glittered  through  our  fancy  like 
the  sunrise  on  the  sea. 

Now  the  wind  is  fair  from  south'ard,  and  the 

schooners  in  the  offing 
Are  breaking  out  their  tops'ls  for  the  venture 

down  the  bay, 

And  the  brass-bejewelled  liners  in  their  elegance 
are  scoffing 

[55] 


At  our  lurid  old  sea-visions  of  the  Indies  and 

Cathay. 

"  They  are  ghosts  of  dead  romances," 
Hoot  the  sirens  — "  dead  romances  — 
Ghosts  of  obsolete  romances,  that  are  doubt 
ful  as  can  be  — 

Just  the  dreams  of  drunken  sailors  — 
Paunchy,  roaring,  grog-shop  sailors!  - 
Yet  their  pamted  slut  Adventure,  did  she  lure 
ye  out  to  sea?  " 


[56] 


THE  MISANTHROPE 

MY  feet  are  set  on  lonely  roads  that  shun  the 

weary  towns, 
I  fence  my  rugged  pastures  on  the  freeland  of 

the  downs ; 

The  wind  that  treads  the  barren  sweep  of  des 
erts  and  of  seas 
Is  my  servant  at  the  sowing,  and  my  confidant 

at  ease. 
Comes   a   whisper  in   the   gloaming  —  comes   a 

shouting  at  the  morn  — 
"  Brother,  sleep,"  or  "  Brother,  waken  !  " —  lest 

his  brother  be  forlorn  ; 
And  I  hear  him  through  the  Babel  of  the  human 

monkey-clan  — 
"  O    the    Gods    were    surely    weary   when    they 

stooped  to  make  a  Man !  " 

And  yet  I  may  not  laugh  away  the  sordidness 
and  sham, 

Or  join  the  clever  cynics  with  a  poisoned  epi 
gram  ; 

6  The  howling  of  the  tempest  drowns  the  yap 
ping  of  the  mob  — " 

If  ye  drop  a  jewelled  dagger,  does  the  tinkle 
drown  a  sob? 

O  ye  "  masters  of  creation,"  with  your  "  towers 
to  the  stars  " — 

[57] 


See  ye  not  the  grinning  terror  'neath  the  tinsel 

of  your  wars? 
—  But     the     whisper !     "  Brother  —  brother! 

Ape  YOU,  too,  the  monkey-clan? 
Pity  —  for   the   Gods   were  weary   when    they 

stooped  to  make  a  Man!  " 


[58] 


THE  DEPARTURE 

(Typhoon  Weather) 

IN  the  west  is  a  funeral-flame, 

In  the  east  is  a  festal  flare, 
Where  the  skies  rejoice  at  the  rise  of  the  moon 

And  grieve  at  the  sun's  despair  — 
Titans  in  pride  and  shame, 

Red  targe  to  blood-red  targe  — 
The  sea  lies  thralled  by  a  devil's  rune 

Silent  from  marge  to  marge. 

A  ship's  black  bulk  between, 

And  the  smoke-flag  drifting  low  - 
For  the  air  droops  dead  as  a  love-sigh  breathed 

A  thousand  years  ago. 
The  bare  masts  lifting  lean 

Nod  to  a  slate-drab  sky, 
And  the  dull  stars  peer  like  eyes  mist-wreathed 

Watching  an  old  love  die. 

Out  to  the  gloom  of  the  sea ! 

The  wash  of  the  wake  breaks  white, 
And  the  shore-boats  lift  on  a  ribbon  of  fire 

That  slashes  the  robe  of  night. 
Ah,  Heart,  may  we  yet  win  free, 

Till  the  hearse-plume  palm-fringe  fades, 
And  drown  our  dream  of  a  lost  desire 

In  the  wind-whipped  blue  of  the  Trades  ? 

[59] 


Heart,  may  we  yet  win  free 
From  the  spell  of  the  sunlit  sea, 
From  the  lure  of  the  long  delights 
Of  our  dear  dead  island-nights, 
From  the  sea-fire's  sorcery-flare, 
And  the  bold  limbs  flashing  bare, 
From  the  full  breast's  sobbing  heave, 
And  the  dark  hair's  tangled  weave  — 
From  the  magic  and  mystery 
Of  our  island-dream  of  the  sea  - 
Heart,  may  we  yet  win  free? 


[60] 


PROPEMPTIKON 

OUT  by  the  rim  of  the  sea,  on  the  grey  sand- 
reaches, 

The  wind  plays  a  desolate  dirge  on  the  harp  of 
the  beaches ; 

The  crests  of  the  wind-bitten  dunes  are  stream 
ing  to  leeward, 

Aping  the  smoulder  of  spindrift  whirling  from 
seaward ; 

The  blades1  of  the  sere  beach-grass  are  alive  with 
the  patter 

Of  myriad  air-driven  feet  of  the  sands  as  they 
scatter, 

And  far  on  the  steely  horizon  a  topsail  is  gleam 
ing, 

Fading  to  southward  to  skylands  of  drifting 
and  dreaming. 

Topsails  that  flicker  and  falter,  then,  suddenly 
bolder, 

Droop  in  the  sea,  and  are  hid  by  the  loom  of  her 
shoulder, 

Leaving  me  sad  'mid  the  ashes  and  embers  of 
passion 

That  mock  with  their  drabness  the  Dawn-Wiz 
ard  leaping  to  fashion 

Flame-towered,  pennanted  glories  —  whose  fin 
gers  bedizen 

[61] 


With  masquerade-tatters  of  splendour  the  vir 
gin  horizon, 

Till  lo  —  comes  the  King  of  the  Masque  —  and 
with  Puritan  scorning 

Homeward  I  go  like  a  ghost  in  the  blaze  of  the 
morning. 


[62] 


DOSTA! 

(Gypsy  Song) 

WITH  the  sun  in  the  sky 

And  the  wind  in  the  grasses, 

The  flash  of  an  eye 

And  the  laughter  of  lasses, 

With  dawn  on  the  road 

And  a  light  shoulder-load  — 

Though,  the  going  be  smooth  or  the  go 
ing  be  rough, 

Dost  a!     It  is  enough ! 

With  a  star  and  a  moon 

And  a  luck  with  the  weather, 

The  lilt  of  a  tune 

And  the  dew  on  the  heather, 

With  wine  and  a  friend 

At  the  gay  journey's  end  - 

Though  the  going  be  smooth  or  the  go 
ing  be  rough, 

Dost  a!     It  is  enough ! 


[63] 


TO  A  HALF-BRED  MARE  THAT  DIED 

FEET  in  the  dark  that  are  more  than  human, 

Following  light  on  the  night-hid  trail  — 
Grace  that  passeth  the  grace  of  woman, 

Ears  alert  for  the  master's  hail  — 
Have  you  forgotten  me,  then,  in  the  Shadow, 

O  dear  bay  mare  with  the  mane  flung  free? 
Or  say,  does  a  neigh  from  the  pasture-meadow 

Cry,  "  Mount,  and  over  the  hills  with  me"? 

There's  a  loss  that  is  dire  as  the  loss  of  brother 

That  the  world  has  ordered  may  scarce  be 

wept, 
For  grief  for  a  horse  is  a  grief  to  smother, 

To  slay  with  a  jest,  if  your  face  be  kept ! 
O  pass  untroubled  that  empty  bridle 

That  hangs  like  a  corpse  on  the  stable  wall  — 
Though  the  road  be  dull  and  the  heart  beat  idle, 

'Twas  a  horse  —  let   that  be  the  end  of  it 
all.  .  .  . 

There's  a  trail  that  follows  the  sun-rich  valleys, 

Looping  the  hills  to  a  haunted  sea  — 
There's  a  beat  of  a  hoof  where  the  woodland 
alleys 

Stretch  to  an  Arcady  far  and  free ; 
And  the  lilting  of  long-dead  song  and  banter 

Drifts  to  my  ears  with  an  old  surprise  — 
O  mare,  have  you  sorrow  for  life,  who  canter, 

A  shade,  on  the  pastures  of  Paradise? 
[64] 


Dawns  that  we  greeted  on  cloud-hung  highlands, 

(Dizzy  the  ways,  but  your  feet  were  sure) 
Hills  that  lifted  like  fog-wrapped  islands, 

Snaring  the  heart  with  their  distant  lure  — 
May  I  forget  them  ?     Or  find  them,  lonely, 

All  for  the  brush  of  a  wind-whipped  mane? 
Peace !     For  a  mare  is  a  mare,  that  only  — 

Dead,  can  ye  saddle  or  sit  her  again? 

Only  a  horse  .   .   .  but  my  heart's  convictions 

Ever  have  whispered  of  kindly  Fates, 
And  I  hear,  in  the  face  of  the  priest's  predic 
tions, 

The  ghost-mare  stamp  at  the  darksome  Gates. 
A  rattle  of  hooves,  and  as  lane  and  byway 

Tempted  us  once,  let  the  trackless  stars ! 
Till  the  Tollman  Peter,  who  guards  the  high 
way, 

Hark  to  a  whinny,  and  —  loosen  the  bars ! 

Feet  in  the  dark  that  are  more  than  human, 

Following  light  on  the  night-hid  trail  — 
Grace  that  passeth  the  grace  of  woman, 

Ears  alert  for  the  master's  hail  — 
Is  it  a  vision,  the  shape  in  the  meadow, 

O  dear  bay  mare  with  the  mane  flung  free  — 
Or  say,  does  a  ghost  from  the  After-Shadow 

Cry,  "  Mount,  and  over  the  Dark  with  me  "? 


[65] 


THE  PENALTIES 

A  FOOL  once  danced  with  Fate  on  Sorrow's  bier, 
And  found  Remorse  beside  him,  led  by  Fear: 
The  jester,  pallid,  cried  "  Excuse  —  excuse  — 
I  was  a  Fool,  because  I  might  not  choose ! 
Yet  I  repent.     Forgive  me  !     See,  I  pray  — 
Lo,  I  have  sinned,  but  Ye  have  shown  the  Way." 

Still,  though  he  clasped  their  knees,  and  prayed 

to  Sorrow, 
Remorse  gave  Yesterday,  and  Fear  To-morrow. 

A    brother    Fool    dragged    Sorrow    from    his 

hearse  — 
Cast    out    the    grim    corpse    like    an    emptied 

purse  — 

"  Lo,  I  have  drawn  my  wage,  and  spent  it  well," 
He  cried  — "  Now  let  me  weep,  and  win  my  Hell. 
For  I  would  grieve."  He  laughed,  and  stooped 

to  hear 
What  words  the  blind  Remorse  should  speak  for 

Fear: 

Remorse  turned  groping;  dumb  Fear  followed 
after, 

Leaving  the  Fool  alone  with  scourgeman  Laugh 
ter. 


[66] 


THE  TRUE  MAGIC 

THE  beauty  that  men  seek  is  half  a  dream  — 
Where'er  we  wander,  yet  it  lies  afar ; 
It  touches  with  its  wand  a  setting  star, 

It  stirs  the  ripple  of  an  ebbing  stream. 

And  though  we  run  beyond  the  dawning-gleam, 
Or  kneel  to  worship  at  an  altar  bright, 
We  may  not  know  the  soul  of  its  delight, 

Or  more  than  marvel  at  its  palest  beam. 

And  yet  in  visions  men  have  lived  to  see  — 

Aye,  dared  the  stunning  glories  of  its  face  — 
And   from    their  wonder  wrung  the  skill  to 
trace 

In  flaming  glyphs  a  dream  of  majesty - 
To  strike  a  stone  to  rapture,  or  to  grace 

A  sorrow  with  a  robe  of  melody. 


[67] 


THE  CHILDREN'S  FLEETS 

BENEATH  a  kindly  sun 

There  winks  a  mighty  sea ; 
Across  the  waters  run 

Our  fleets  of  fantasy  — 
The  frigates  grim  and  tall, 

The  schooners  low  and  black  — 
From  trireme  out  of  Gaul 

To  skiff  of  Sarawak. 

The  lily-pads  that  drift 

Beneath  the  summer  breeze, 
Are  magic  isles  that  lift 

Their  peaks  on  tropic  seas. 
The  scum  that  roofs  the  pond 

With  flaunt  of  filmy  seed 
Is  spelled  by  fairy  wand 

To  thick  Sargasso  weed. 

Ye  say  the  lofty  ships, 

Our  barks  and  pirate-brigs, 
Are  naught  but  whittled  chips 

And  stripped  and  riven  twigs  ? 
From  reefed  sea-battered  isle 

To  harbor-city  spires, 
The  fancies  that  beguile 

Our  hungry  dream-desires? 


[68] 


Ye  dare  not  tell  us  so ! 

We  may  not  halt  to  hear, 
While  crowd  the  keels  below 

Our  thronged  and  bannered  pier. 
Ah,  pitiful !  —  to  wake 

With  shadow-ridden  eyes  — 
Nor  know  the  dawns  that  break 

On  shores  of  Paradise ! 


[69] 


THE  SMOKE-FLAG 

(Engine  Choral) 

DISTANT,  dim,  on  the  earth's  far  rim  where  the 
breezes  shout  to  the  fulmar  free, 

Black  I  creep  o'er  the  roadless  deep  on  my  long 
adventure  from  quay  to  quay  - 

Flaunt  my  cloak  of  the  bannered  smoke  to  the 
windy  vaults  of  an  empty  sea. 

South  or  North  ye  may  fling  me  forth,  O  Man, 
my  lord,  who  is  still  my  slave  — 

Slave  who  feeds  me,  and  lord  who  leads  me,  and 
god  that  laughs  to  a  nameless  grave  — 

East  or  West  as  your  heart's  unrest  shall 
scourge  ye  craven  or  lure  ye  brave. 

Flag  o'  dreams  —  when  the  red  sun  gleams  and 
the  foremast  black  like  a  furnace-bar 

Cuts  its  face  as  the  swift  keels  race  to  the  sun 
set-land  of  the  evening  star ; 

Flag  o'  Fate  —  when  the  blind  sea's  hate  shall 
have  haled  ye  down  from  a  hopeless  war ! 


[70] 


SONNET  * 

TO  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 
(President  of  Yale  University  1886-1899) 

THERE  is  a  splendor  in  the  wheeling  years 

That  lights  the  soul  with  myriad  sanctities  — 

There  is  a  magic  in  old  memories, 

And  a  dear  joy  in  half- forgotten  tears  ; 

So,  when  the  long  light  trails  adown  the  skies 
And  lends  new  glories  to  the  garden's  flowers, 
Come  with  the  years  the  golden-footed  hours, 
And  the  fresh  insight  of  unclouded  eyes. 

Youth,  I  would  sing  ye  sermons  on  your  pride ! 
His  is  the  Youth-in-Age  that  lives  forever; 
An  holier  strength  than  yours,  that  wavers 

never, 

That  has  known  Life,  yet  stoops  not  to  deride. 
Hark    to    the    lesson,    novice!     Learn    the 

truth  - 
Age  ye  as  he,  and  win  to  deeper  youth. 


*  Reprinted  from  the  1914  Class  Book. 
[71] 


THE  PHILANDERER 

THE  moon  was  a  gypsy's  penny 

Meshed  in  the  hair  of  Night, 
The  road  was  a  scarf  of  silver 

And  the  river  a  robe  of  light  — 
And  was  it  the  dream  while  waiting, 

Or  was  it  She  when  she  came, 
That  turned  the  thought  to  a  rapture 

And  the  blood  to  a  pulsing  flame? 

'Twas  She,  ye  say  —  but  ye  weary, 

Be  the  maiden  never  so  fair! 
'Tis  but  in  the  dream  ye're  constant, 

And  ye  may  not  clasp  her  there. 
So  haste  ye  not  the  fulfilling, 

Lest  the  gold  of  the  dream  be  dross  — 
Lest  heads  be  bowed  with  the  sorrow 

And  hearts  be  dead  with  the  loss. 

And  shall  ye  turn  from  the  meeting 

In  the  flare  of  the  white  moon-flood, 
And  shall  ye  flee  from  the  kisses 

Of  the  soft  lips  red  as  blood? 
Ah,  shame !     Do  ye  fear  for  the  morrow  ? 

Love,  love,  while  the  dream  be  new  — 
On  the  chance  that  ye  win  to  a  trysti/ng 

When  ye  find  that  your  dream  is  true! 


[72] 


RODRIPEN 

THE  QUEST 

From  the  Romany 

I  SOUGHT  my  love  'mid  the  haze  of  the  highway 

dust, 

Where  the  tilted  van  crept  slow  in  the  noon 
day  sun  — 

For  a  ringlet  stirred  at  the  touch  of  the  zeph 
yr's  gust, 
And  I  dreamed  that  my  heart  was  won. 

I  sought  my  love  where  the  hillside  broke  to  the 

bay, 
(O  long  sea-road  to  the  land  of  my  heart's 

desire!) 
For  her  eyes  were  bright  with  the  morn,  and  her 

cheeks  were  gay, 
And  the  dawn  was  her  altar-fire. 

O  the  roads  are  marked  with  the  print  of  her 

dancing  feet, 
And  I  find  her  smile  on  the  lips  of  a  hundred 

maids, 
But  she  hides   afar  where   the   stars   and  the 

mountains  meet 
And  laughs  at  the  slow  decades  — 


Till  the  world  is  sown  with  the  ash  of  my  scat 
tered  camps 
And  my  heart  is  chill  with  the  breath  of  the 

sunset  blast  — 
Yet  still  in  the  Dark  is  the  flare  of  the  fairy 

lamps 
That  shall  call  me  to  Love  at  last. 


[74] 


TO  A  POET  WHO  DIED  YOUNG 

THOUGH  thy  life  seem  as  the  day, 

And  thy  death  the  gloaming-grey, 

Though  thy  spirit  loose  its  hold 

With  the  fading  sunset-gold, 

Ere  thy  song  be  half  begun 

Or  thy  fairy  cities  won 

Or  thy  web  of  vision  spun  — 

Never  weep. 

Where  thou  sowest,  thou  wilt  reap, 

In  the  Land  beyond  the  Sleep. 

Thou  wilt  find  a  fresher  tongue 

For  thy  lyrics  yet  unsung, 

And  thy  hand  a  wiser  pen, 

Till  thy  music  sweep  again 

Flaming  through  the  lives  of  men ! 

Never  sigh; 

Thinkest  Those  behind  the  sky 

Made  a  Poet  but  to  die? 


[75] 


LYRICS  FROM  THE  SCHERIAN 


I 

THE  OUTLANDER'S  SONG 

YE  who  dwell  in  Fairyland, 

Half  a  world  away, 
Know  ye  sting  of  night's  tears 

Drying  with  the  day? 
Though  the  draught  of  Pleasure 

Be  ever  yours  to  drain, 
Children  of  the  Dawn-glow, 

Learn  the  bliss  of  Pain ! 

Ye  who  dwell  in  Fairyland, 

Know  ye  naught  but  joys? 
Press  ye  from  your  vine's  wealth 

Wine  that  never  cloys? 
Win,  O  win  to  Sorrow 

With  the  fading  leaf  — 
Children  of  the  wise  Gods, 

Pray  the  gift  of  Grief ! 

Ye  who  dwell  in  Fairyland. 

Dancing  in  the  sun, 
Lift  ye  now  my  rue-cup 

When  the  wine  is  done ! 
Idle  falls  the  laughter, 

Closer  clings  the  hand  — 
Children  of  the  April, 

O  weep  and  understand! 
[79] 


II 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  HARBOR-MAIDENS 

LILT  the  music  ne'er  so  featly 

From  the  throbbing  lyre, 
Drop  the  veiling  lid  discreetly 

On  the  glances'  fire ! 
Heed  the  grey  wife  and  her  warning, 
Daughters  of  the  jewelled  morning, 
Though  the  love-word  linger  sweetly 

On  the  lips  of  young  desire ! 

Lo,  the  gaunt  sea-battered  galleys 

Fresh  from  Scylla's  den ! 
Hark  ye,  down  the  woodland  alleys 

Rings  the  mirth  of  men ! 
Till  the  parted  leaves  discover 
Youth  and  maiden,  maid  and  lover, 
And  the  fading  color  rallies, 

Dims  and  rallies,  pales  again ! 

Tresses  black  as  plume  of  raven, 

Lips  as  red  as  flame, 
Heed  ye  how  ye  seek  the  haven, 

Lest  ye  win  to  shame ! 
Ah,  but  glimpsed  ye  'neath  the  arbor 
Painted  headsails  in  the  harbor? 
Age  is  but  a  sorry  craven, 

And  is  laughing  Love  to  blame? 

[80] 


Ill  »,',••. ..  . 

SERENADE 

LOVE,  I  have  furrowed  far  my  shifting  trails 
By  witches'  isles  that  swim  in  haunted  seas, 

And  glimpsed  the  silver  of  thy  galley's  sails 
Rounding  the  capes  of  drowsy  Cyclades  — 

Followed  and  found  thee,  mirage-born  of  dream, 
Wrought  of  the  flame  of  dawn  and  wine  of 
dew  — 

Waking  the  world  to  wonder  with  thy  gleam, 
Soothing  with  petal-hands  to  dream  anew. 

Hail  the  Releaser!     Lo,  enchanted  shores 
Rise  at  the  tilting  of  His  flagon-rims, 

Till  I  am  mazed  as  foam-thresh  from  my  oars, 
Drunk  with  the  marble  lyric  of  thy  limbs ! 


[81] 


-V  *  o     ' 

IV 


ECHO  SONG 

MAIDEN  with  the  sunny  eyes, 

And  the  south-wind  in  thy  tresses, 
Though  the  glades  of  Paradise 
With  their  haunted  wildernesses 
Lure  to  follow, 
Never  heed! 

Shun  the  lilting  syrinx-reed ! 
Only  sorrow 
Cometh  after 

All  its  flood  of  joyous  laughter, 
And  though  dear  the  call  may  be, 
Maiden,  yet  be  free ! 

Little  Mistress  Never-Care, 

Weaving  in  thy  fairy  dances, 
Hast  thou  yet  the  will  to  dare 
All  our  ages-old  romances  ? 
But  the  calling  — 
Must  thou  go 

Where  the  faun-note  flutters  low? 
Wait  the  falling 
Echo  after  — 

"  Love  is  more  than  joy  and  laughter, 
And  though  dear  the  call  may  be, 
Maiden,  yet  be  free!  " 

[82] 


ENVOY 

FOR  gift  of  ruddy  sunset-light  on  sea  and  barren 

strand, 
For   rapture   of  the   summer   dawn,   and  heart  to 

understand, 
For  freedom  of  the  gracious   Earth,  for  life  and 

its  reward  — 
To  whomsoever  Thou  mayst  be,  my  gratitude,  O 

Lord! 

And  if  there  be  a  Journey's-end  more  joyous  than 

the  way, 
And  if  there  be  an  Afterglow  more  splendid  than 

the  day, 

A  canvas  of  Eternity  when  human  colors   dim  — 
Whatever    Artist-God   there   be,   my   gratitude   to 

Him! 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENT! 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


291934. 


- 


LD2- 


x/ 

me    ruin  t 

ov.'  cimser,  e  uc 

/    K100 

B     125 

^    ^ 

$W^ 

/ 

1 

MAR   29193 

j  ^///-s,c  i^ 

&>  1934 

.^B 

346461 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


